For the past...at a guess...three months, I've been thinking about home. Constantly. For me, my home, as per definition rather than perception, is where I find my house. As such, home is the place I return to after procrastinating at work all day while getting paid reasonable wages to exercise my larynx, feet, fingers and patience. But I don't have a home here. It's a cruddy apartment with no actual wood anywhere in sight.
But hang on a minute fraction of time...It's not as simple as reducing something as provocative as this into a cheap status of definition like that. Is it?
Allow me to dilute the muddy waters a bit. For me, my home is no longer the same former home as it was prior to me spending close to forty-fucken hours (yeeha, a cheap flight!) getting to this country all those full moons ago. See, back then, home was in Cairns - because that's where my house was - and now Cairns is no longer my home because my house is no longer there. Sure, my former house (a.k.a. my former home) is there but my present house (therefore my present home) is in Adelaide, which is also the place of my former home prior to my present home's reassignment as my present former home. In other words, I lived in Adelaide then I moved to Cairns.
What I'm trying to convey is that having bought a home without actually having seen it, as well as having sold the home I had lived in for close to five years, surely makes for intriguing reading if undertaking a case study into the effect of stasis versus the effects of home sickness on the matter which comprises the human mind.
The time I've presently spent overseas weighs in at two years, seven months, thirteen days and a handful of hours. The time I've spent thinking about home - including the city of Adelaide - during the past three months weighs in at twenty-four hours minus sleeping time (dunno what I think about during sleep but it's bound to involve nudity; perhaps nudity at home?) each day, which is eighteen hours. Take away from that the amount of hours I physically work on any given day (on average this is two and a quarter) and you can bet your bottom dollar that I spend fifteen hours and forty-five minutes thinking about home each day. *
Unlike select fellow bloggers out there (*kisses*), I'm not blessed with the power to pull planets out of solar orbit and ditch them beyond view in order of possibly displacing myself from hyar over to thyar and into my non-existent bed in my recently acquired and very actual home in Adelaide. It's also not for want of wishing either.
What have I been doing to compensate for this inferior planet pulling power of mine? Well, I haven't stuffed the jocks with a couple of the world's heftiest boulders and the Suez Canal as would be Ultra Toast's guess, I'm guessing. Instead, I've used my powers of passivity wisely and allowed myself to be pulled into the orbital lives of regular Adelaidians unknown to me, giving me invaluable insight into all manner of life resembling the sheer hell that I seem to remember so clearly.
Don't get me wrong, fellow Adelaidians: I'm not insinuating that a lifestyle worse than existence as an experimental anal virus awaits me back home. No, no, no, no, no. The notion of sharing proximity with Lleyton Hewitt doesn't phase me in the least. Not a wee willy winkle bit with a yellow turtleneck sweater and kiddy song on top. Nor does accepting fate like an alpha male gorilla's throbbing pink member come the crack of dawn instinctively searching for prized companionship only to be thwarted by a phonecall from a representative of The Advertiser (newspaper) awaking me with enquiries of whether I'd care to have trash delivered to my house six days a week. Nothing like that, dear unknown friends.
What I am saying is that I've been genuinely interested in what's been happening in the place that was my original home when I initially crossed the great oceans of the world to arrive to my adopted country I now call Australia, no matter how regular, lame, tame, boring, insipid or any adjectival prodding I can summon the information is. I've been GETTING INTO IT and I shit you not very much, I've been digging it.
To those of you about to weep, I salute you...for you are easily pleased. To those of you wondering why I'd want to again live in Adelaide...because there's nowhere better to create tiny hands and smelly little feet and watch them evolve into obnoxious, whining beings.
* Excludes weekends.
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